


Footie Pajamas

by SelanPike



Category: MS Paint Adventures, Problem Sleuth (Webcomic)
Genre: Footie Pajamas, M/M, complete pointlessness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-07
Updated: 2012-06-07
Packaged: 2017-11-07 03:11:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/426297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SelanPike/pseuds/SelanPike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can’t stand this. You’ve endured some terrible fashion decisions on his part in the past, but footie pajamas you will not abide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Footie Pajamas

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so basically, I did a meme on my RP blog where people suggested outfits for PI to wear and I drew them. Footie Pajamas came up. I had to write something with that.

            You drop in unannounced. You’ve spent the better part of the day—and the night, really—dealing with all kinds of shit. Slick’s bitching, then smoothing out some problems at the casino, then more of Slick’s bitching, then an ill-planned heist, and then even more bitching.

            You can’t go home. Slick can find you there.

            You are Diamonds Droog, and you are letting yourself in to Pickle Inspector’s apartment.

            He never gave you a key, but it wasn’t difficult for you to get an imprint of his key and make one for yourself. You unlock the door, jiggling the lock to keep it from sticking. Nothing in the Inspector’s apartment works properly. You’ve become more adept at dealing with this than he is.

            As you enter, Pickle Inspector pokes his head out of his bedroom door. He smiles, unsurprised at your ability to enter his locked apartment. “Oh, ahh, Droog. G-good evening.”

            “And you, Inspector,” you reply as you take your shoes off. When you look back up the Inspector has walked out of the doorway and you can see all of him.

            You freeze.

            “What is that?” you ask.

            He looks around, confused. “Wh—what’s what?”

            “That.” You point. “That… that _thing_ you’re wearing.”

            He looks down at the ridiculous pajamas he’s wearing. It’s a one-piece, flannel and faded red and too wide for him. Dear god, it’s even got footies.

            “M—my pajamas?” He grins like an idiot, like he’s actually happy with his clothing choices.

            “You don’t wear pajamas,” you say. You’ve never seen him wear any sort of night clothes. He always either sleeps in his clothes, or his boxers, or naked if you have anything to do with it. “You never have.”

            He shakes his head. “I—I do so! S-sometimes. Just, ah, it’s r-really cold tonight, and my pajamas a-are warm…”

            You stomp over and spin him around. “Oh, for the love of—it has a hatch on the back!”

            “O—of course,” he says, as though this is the most obvious thing in the world.

            You can’t stand this. You’ve endured some terrible fashion decisions on his part in the past, but footie pajamas you will not abide. You shove him against the wall, almost snarling.

            “Take it off.”

            His cheeks turn a shade of pink. “D—Droog! Rude.”

            You start undoing his buttons. God, he didn’t even button it up right. He is completely hopeless. He squirms, but you only really need one arm to hold him in place while you continue unbuttoning him with the other.

            “C-cut it out!” he insists. “Th-they’re just pajamas, gosh!”

            “It’s an abomination,” you say.

            He continues to protest as you pull the pajamas off of him. You briefly wish he had a fireplace, so you could burn them, but if he had a heat source like that he probably wouldn’t need this ugly thing in the first place. Instead you settle for opening his window and throwing the pajamas outside. They tumble twelve stories down and the wind catches them, carrying them far away.

            You close the window and turn to face the Inspector again, who is standing in his boxers and hugging himself, shivering.

            “R-r-r-r-rude,” he says.

            “I will buy you some proper pajamas tomorrow.”

            “B-but I’m c-c-cold _now_ ,” he whines.

            You shrug your jacket off and put it over his shoulders. “Perhaps making some tea will warm you up.”

            He pulls the jacket close, desperately trying to absorb the residual body heat on it. “F-f-f-fine. B-but I’m n-n-not making your favorite.”

            He shuffles into the kitchen and sets about filling the kettle. You sit down on his couch. As you idly turn the TV on and flip around for something that isn’t too inane, you consider whether he has anything worse hidden in his wardrobe, and whether you’ll have a heart attack when you see it.


End file.
